


Unsanctioned

by Fallynleaf



Category: All Elite Wrestling, Professional Wrestling
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-19 23:13:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19982131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fallynleaf/pseuds/Fallynleaf
Summary: I speak the language of violence.





	Unsanctioned

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was directly inspired by some of the conversation that I saw on twitter during the Moxley vs Janela match at Fyter Fest. I've been having fun attempting to translate wrestling dynamics into sex scenes, so I decided to try and write this one as a challenge.

There is glass on the floor, and it doesn’t matter that there is glass on the floor, because you’ve got him pinned to the wall and his tongue is in your mouth and there is the taste of blood there, and you aren’t sure if it’s yours or his.

He twists out from under you, catching your wrist, feeling up where you got snagged on some barbed wire when you busted into this place.

Condemned buildings tell no lies, hide no truths. There isn’t a more honest place to fuck.

Your back impacts with cold tile. You feel a ceramic shard chip away, edges digging into your skin. You lost your jacket, at some point. Don’t remember when. His skin is against your skin, his beating heart to your beating heart, lips the flavor of cigarette smoke.

He’s got you between the wall and a hard place. You work your hand down into his pants, then use the momentum to walk him back until he collides with dirty porcelain. For a moment, he’s pliant. His dick is hot and heavy in your hand.

Then he pushes his weight into you, taking both of you to the floor. You brace your hands to catch yourself, and one of your palms comes down on broken glass.

He’s there, kneeling between your legs, unzipping your jeans, putting his mouth on your cock. It’s good at first, a long, slick slide of pleasure, then just like that, it’s all teeth.

You shove him off, then crawl forward on top of him, pressing one hand down onto his shoulder and wrapping the other around both of your dicks, your cock still wet from his mouth.

His long hair spills out onto the dirty tile beneath him, tangled strands mingling with grime and dust. You lean over and spit down onto his face, and he sucks on a couple of his fingers then reaches up and hooks them in your mouth. You struggle against it, and he smirks up at you.

When he releases you, he leaves a smear of your own spit across your cheek. His hand joins your hand around your cock, and it’s even better that way.

You let go to slide his pants down a little further, and he slips out from under you, then gets to his feet, leaning back against the wall, cock jutting out.

For a moment, you just stare at each other.

Slowly, you rise to your knees. With your eyes on his, you drag your tongue up the length of his dick. He doesn't react to it, but you can see his arousal in his blown-out pupils, can taste it in your mouth. You pull off of him then spit onto the ground.

He runs a hand through his hair and tips his head back. He's laughing.

You stand up and grab his face with both hands, then cover his mouth with yours, swallowing his laugh. He bites your lip, and you can taste blood again.

There’s still too much clothes in the way. You walk closer until your entire body is flush against his, pressing him into the wall. Your hands go to his pants, and he doesn't stop you.

When you step back and lift your hand to your mouth to spit in it, he pulls your open palm towards him and spits into it for you.

The spit isn’t going to be enough, but neither of you want it to be.

You grab his thighs, fingers digging into his skin like a vice, then hoist him up so that his legs are on either side of your body, his back propped up against the wall.

He holds himself in place, suspended, his legs and arms wrapped around you as you position your cock against his ass.

Then you thrust forward, and he sinks down onto you. He lets out a breath. A soft exhale, hissed out between his teeth.

You bury your face in his neck, sucking a mark into his skin. His nails are pressing into the scars on your back. You thrust up into him, and you can  _ feel  _ that it hurts, but he doesn’t moan, doesn’t cry out, only chases after the pain, leaning into it, seeking it like a junkie after his next hit.

It’s all hot friction and sharp pleasure. You’re dizzy with it. But you want to see him come undone from it, first. You want to take him apart.

It’s been so long since you’ve done this. So long since you’ve fucked a near-stranger somewhere you shouldn’t. So long since you’ve felt  _ alive _ like this, your whole body wired, feeling young and stupid and crazy.

You’re both on the edge, now. It’s a balancing act.

But something’s always got to give.

You press your forehead to his, fucking him harder, and the most he gives you is a gasp before he comes, the orgasm wrung out of him.

It only takes a couple more thrusts before you’re coming, too.

For a long moment, you just stand there, your breathing ragged. You pull out of him and let him down, then you’re leaning against him, your body braced against his body, which is braced against the wall. You can feel his heart beating fast and hard. You look at him, and he looks at you.

Finally, you separate. You step away, pulling your pants back up, feeling his sweat drying on your skin.

He slides down the wall and sits roughly on the floor. You take a seat beside him. Both of you breathe.

He gets out a cigarette and a lighter. His finger rolls the wheel, producing a little flame that flickers hot and bright, illuminating the dust in the air and the dingy shadows. He lights the cigarette, then the fire flicks out, plunging the room back into the heady dusk.

When he takes a drag on it, the end of the cigarette glows orange, like the sunset you just missed. He breathes out a cloud of smoke, then hands the cigarette to you.

You take a drag, then pass it back.

For the next few minutes, the two of you just sit in silence on the floor of a decrepit bathroom and share a cigarette.

Whatever this was, it isn’t going to happen again. Not like this. After tonight, there will be no evidence that it ever happened. Buildings age and fall out of fashion and decay, and then they come down.

But perhaps it’ll happen again in a different building, in a different time, when both of you are wearing more years than you’re wearing now, with more scars on your skin.

Or maybe it won’t. Maybe this time is the last time, the only time.

The cigarette burns out between your fingers. The fire dims, and you watch the trail of smoke rise up from it until it fades out into the dark.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this before Mox's G1 Climax video came out, but this quote left me feeling pretty good about my characterization: _"I get off on challenges. I get off on wars. Blood and guts fights. I get off on having black eyes. I like it when I taste blood in my mouth."_
> 
> The summary of this fic is a quote from the same video.


End file.
